And once again, it begins with food. For those who know us, this should come as no surprise.
Lindsay: I recently bought a cookbook published in 1959, and we decided to kick off our first Saturday with a good old-fashioned home-cooked meal. We quickly realized, however, that the women from the General Foods Kitchen Cookbook had more tips for, say, managing a family meal on a two-burner stove (“like many of the other problems you solve so well every day, you can solve this one”) or balancing the demands of work and domestic life (“you, more than most people, need to keep a well-stocked emergency shelf. For there are certain to be times when your boss asks you to stay beyond market closing times, and it’s all you can do to get home in time to fix dinner”). Thankfully, we have the Martha Stewart Cookbook as well.
Ben: Thankfully, indeed, because we were not about to slum it with simple pancakes. So frittata became the meal of choice. We headed over to the local grocery store, and picked up the necessities: a (curiously water-logged) green pepper, hot pork sausage, and feta cheese. So much feta cheese.
Oh, and croissants. How could I forget those flaky wonders of toasted delicious.
Maybe I’m with twins, but I ate that meal like it was nobody’s business. We were both quite full after waiting an eternity for the frittata to set in the oven, so we settled on a walk to help aid the digestion. To Prospect Park!
Lindsay: It was lovely. I’ve been to Prospect Park dozens of times, but never realized how much of it I was missing. I think my favorite discovery was the audubon society, which offers free bird watching tours and nature walks every week (be on the look out for future posts on this). The lakes and ponds are a close second, though. I forgot how beautiful this city can be sometimes.
Ben: Being a bit further away from the Park than Lindsay, I’ve unfortunately made the least of living within walking distance to such a lovely place, so our trip was a revelation for me. The bridges are beautiful, the buildings are gorgeous, and the sheer scale of the park lets you get lost with the certain comfort of finding your way back home.
And then there’s always the joyous discovery of a used packet of personal lubricant discarded behind the wooden bench where you sit. I take comfort in knowing that New Yorkers are a smart bunch of folks: you don’t ever want to worry about chaffing during a bout of kinky public sex when there’s already the threat of splinters. Well played, random exhibitionists.
Lindsay: Now we’re back home, sipping on the rose that my roommate bought in celebration of her promotion and listening to Joni Mitchell, which, for different reasons, feels like home to both of us. Our legs are aching–a three and a half hour walk will do that to you–but its a satisfying reminder of a day spent actually doing shit.
On the agenda for next week: a trip to the edge of Queens to cross the Hell Gate Bridge, explore Randall’s Island, and cross back into Manhattan on the Triborough (ahem, RFK) bridge. Can’t wait.
Ben: While Joni Mitchell’s Ladies of the Canyon has been playing, my mind has wandered back to my parents cooking dinner during my early years. I inherited the sentimental gene from my mother, so I remember her adoring “The Circle Game” because it encapsulates the bittersweet of watching your children grow up. If you asked me then where I wanted to be at this age, I would’ve probably said an archeologist digging up dinosaurs in the desert; instead, I’m here, enjoying a glass of wine with a dear friend in this fine city, and I couldn’t complain if I tried.
